


Everybody's Walkin' the Dog

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mugs, Mutual Pining, Pining Arthur, Pining Merlin, Puppy Aithusa, Romance, flatmates, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: They've been flatmates forever, and friends for even longer than that, so it seems like the most natural thing in the world for Arthur and Merlin to get a puppy together. But what happens to the puppy when they are both away? Arthur doesn’t trust the (devilishly handsome) new dog walker. At all. And Merlin’s not too keen on the (ravishingly beautiful) replacement that Arthur finds, either. Jealousy, pining, and misunderstandings ensue.





	1. Gwaine

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Enk’s prompt: “Arthur/Merlin drabble. They have a new puppy.” But obviously I can’t drabble to save my life, so this happened instead.
> 
> With eternal thanks to Tari_Sue for giving me the confidence to finish this thing, and to the incomparable Rawks for the thorough beta and wise words. Never again will Arthur sigh quite so much!

“It’s a bloody good thing that you’re cute.” Arthur scowled at the chewed shoes he held in one hand. “I wouldn’t let just any puppy get away with this sort of vandalism, you know.”

“Yip!” Aithusa looked down at Arthur’s feet, and then looked up again, head tipped on one side so that her little tongue lolled out. She lifted a paw to his knee, and whined.

“All right.” Sighing, Arthur tossed his ruined brogues into the cupboard and fished out a pair of sturdy wellies with a show of reluctance that he didn’t really feel. Now that she’d had all her jabs, Aithusa finally had the all clear to go out for walks. To be honest, Arthur found this as liberating as she did. “As Merlin’s working late tonight, I suppose I’ll have to walk you this evening. But no more naughty shoe-chewing!” 

It had been Arthur’s idea to get her, but of course she and Merlin had become instant friends. Which was good. After all, the whole point, in Arthur’s view anyway, was to ensure that Merlin got more fresh air and exercise. Because Arthur’s flatmate had as much common sense as a gnat. If it wasn’t for Arthur keeping a close eye on him, Merlin would hole himself up in his bedroom with his medical texts for days on end. He would emerge, pallid and blinking, for his increasingly lengthy and stressful shifts, and then disappear again, without even pausing to eat. The idiot.

As if she’d understood his sentence, Aithusa bounded to her feet. Claws slithering and tick-ticking on the wooden floor, she skittered towards the front door of their flat. She tugged at the leash that hung by the coat-rack, and barked.

“Hold still!” Half laughing, Arthur reminded himself never to say the word “walk” out loud in Aithusa’s presence, and bent to attach the leash to her collar, burying his fingers in the soft fur of her neck. She struggled in his grip, warm and vigorously wriggling beneath his hands. “Whoa! Let me get your lead and jacket on, silly!”

The Arsenal dog jacket had been Arthur’s not-so-secret present at Morgana’s Christmas party from Santa, aka Merlin. Merlin, who had beamed proudly all the way through the ostensibly anonymous gift exchange. Merlin, who was no more capable of keeping a secret than he was of getting through an evening without breaking something unutterably expensive and fragile. (Morgana’s taste in vases was not cheap). So really, it was a good thing that Merlin had Arthur as a flatmate to cook for him and thus protect him from further incident. Otherwise, who knew what sort of further horrific, crockery-induced injuries he would inflict upon himself, let alone his bank account?

Arthur fiddled with the straps, deftly avoiding a few grateful licks from Aithusa, still smiling at the memory. Of Merlin watching, with a wide grin that made his cheeks eclipse his eyes entirely, as Arthur opened the present. And, as if that wasn’t enough of give-away, Merlin had then gone on to deliver a stern lecture on keeping the puppy’s legs safe when putting on the jacket. Arthur, of course, had taken the piss out of Merlin for being hopeless at keeping secrets. But no amount of teasing from Morgana about how besotted the pair of them were over that sodding puppy could disguise the warm feeling that crept through him every time he contemplated the sheer perfection of Merlin’s present.

A few minutes later they were strolling through the damp, grey streets towards Clissold Park, pausing every few metres for Aithusa to sniff at a lamp-post here or there. Within seconds, she was drenched, despite the protective jacket, which thanks to the rain had now darkened from scarlet to a deep, wet crimson. Her dense fur matted into little dripping clumps, and her ears drooped around her face. Unconcerned, she trotted along, occasionally tugging at the leash when Arthur lagged too far behind.

Arthur sheltered beneath Merlin’s “Conjurers Do It With Their Fingers!” umbrella, smiling at other dog walkers and keeping a protective eye on his charge. Meanwhile, Aithusa sniffed and licked and charmed and tail-wagged - or rather bum-wagged, her entire rear end waving from side to side - her way through several similar canine conversations. Every so often, her over-enthusiastic bottom-waggling overbalanced her entirely, making her bumble towards other people. At one point, she got distracted by a group of ducks, who waddled away from her, quacking in alarm. In the consequent panicked slithering along the mud, Arthur had to rescue her from near-immersion in a pond.

Ridiculous, clumsy, affectionate little pup. She and Merlin were two of a pair, with their effortless charm and total lack of coordination.

“Are you all right?” A drenched-looking woman paused and sent him a concerned frown, and he realised that he was standing stock-still in the rain, watching dopey-eyed as Aithusa did a pee.

“Ahem. Come on, Aithusa!” Twitching her lead, he schooled his expression into what he hoped was something more appropriately weather-beaten, and nodded curtly at the woman. “Perfectly all right, thank you. Dreadful weather.”

“Awful.” Returning his nod, the woman scuttled away through the puddles. “Nice umbrella, though!” she added over her retreating shoulder.

It had originally been Arthur’s idea that getting a puppy would force Merlin into getting some fresh air and exercise for once. But even so, the sheer force of his own affection for the little dog had taken him by surprise.

Aithusa was a white Cockapoo, barely reaching to his knee, with a shaggy pelt and coal-black eyes that melted holes in your soul.

Merlin, in contrast, was a sarcastic, hot-tempered medic with an over-developed work ethic and a heart big enough to hold the world and all the people in it. And one day, someone worthy of Merlin would come along and steal him away, and he would live happily ever after. Without Arthur.

As Arthur shivered, suddenly cold, the clouds thickened and the rain came down in stair rods.

“Dreadful weather,” he muttered again, under his breath.

*

When they got back, Arthur frowned through the gap in the not quite closed door. He knew for a fact that he had secured the flat before leaving. But now it was ajar. Which meant one of two things. Either an extremely careful burglar had managed to break in without causing any damage. Or…

“Merlin!” he yelled, striding over the territory and pausing only to remove Aithusa’s jacket and lead. “MERLIN! You irresponsible nincompoop! You left the door open again!”

Once disrobed, Aithusa promptly shook herself, tongue lolling out.

“Ugh! You evil puppy! You did that on purpose!” Sighing, Arthur shrugged off his now mud-splattered raincoat and shoved Merlin’s ridiculous umbrella back into the stand by the front door. “Merlin! I swear to God that one of these days I will arrive home and find that some enterprising drug addict has taken every last item in this house including, and I’m not exaggerating, your precious box of conjuring tricks. And don’t get me started on what would happen to poor little Aithusa if you let her escape— "

“Sorry!” the door to the living room opened, and a mass of shaggy black curls popped out, swiftly followed by the rest of Merlin. Freshly out of the shower. Shirtless, wet haired, and pink cheeked. “Oops?”

Blinking at this enticing sight, Arthur was momentarily disconcerted. He took a breath, and opened his mouth to deliver another tongue-lashing, but before he could yell “irresponsible nincompoop” again, Aithusa, spotting Merlin, launched herself at his ankles, leaping as high as she could, with a flurry of delighted yaps. Because, although she was nominally Arthur’s dog, Merlin was her favourite.

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? After all, he had been Arthur’s favourite for as long as he could remember.

“There’s my girl!” Merlin picked her up, eyes dancing with laughter, as he was buried beneath an enthusiastic onslaught of licks and snuffles. “How’s my best girl then? Did the grumpy sausage take her for a nice walk then? Did he? Did he?”

“Oh, God.” Arthur rolled his eyes, turning his back and fussing at his muddy jacket to hide the warm tide of affection that washed over him. “Grumpy sausage? Where on earth do you get these ridiculous insults from? I don’t know why I put up with it. It’s even worse than it was when Morgana lived here! I don’t know why I ever let her move out!”

“Oh come on!” Merlin’s voice dimmed as he retreated into the depths of the flat. “Morgana would never play BoxOfMagic on the Xbox One with you! Or let you watch your favourite game shows! She’d never make up pillow talk between the presenters with you! She would make you watch black-and-white French avant garde movies and discuss the finer points of existentialism instead. You’d hate it!”

“Fair point.” With a grunt of effort, Arthur toed off his wet Wellingtons, making the rubber squeak.

When he made it to the sofa, Merlin was curled up in the corner with the Xbox console already fired up and the controller in his hand. Two steaming mugs of tea sat on the table in front of him. Aithusa lay with her head on Merlin’s lap, gazing up at him adoringly.

Arthur knew how she felt.

“Ready?” said Merlin, arching an enquiring eyebrow.

With a put-upon sigh, Arthur sat down heavily and grabbed the other controller.

Life wasn’t so bad, really, when he thought about it.

“I’ll be Wizziwig.” Merlin clicked expertly through a bunch of menus.

“Of course you will.” Arthur snorted. Merlin always went for the wizard characters. “If you were as adept at handling glasses and china as you are at conjuring and at operating this console, we’d have a lot fewer broken ones littering our recycling box.”

“Oh, ha ha!” Merlin glared and put out his tongue. “Who will you be this week?”

“Misterio,” said Arthur, wrenching his gaze away from Merlin’s mouth to select his character.

“Misterio the thief? Oh my God!” As he dissolved into helpless laughter, Merlin’s eyes disappeared behind a forest of sparkles and he rolled around on the sofa, dislodging Aithusa in his glee. “You’re such a cliché!”

“What? I’m always Misterio!” Arthur didn’t get what the big deal was. “And anyway, I’m nothing like him! He’s a clumsy oaf who’s always getting into trouble because he can’t keep his mouth shut…”

“Yeah, exactly!” Merlin made a gesture with his controller, and his character obligingly waved his wand at the door of the passageway. “He’s your type.”

“How can you say that?” There was a break in the action while their characters descended into the dungeons of the Castle of Fyrien. Shifting his weight forward, controller in one hand, Arthur grabbed a mug of steaming hot tea with the other, and took a slurp. “I’m bisexual. I don’t have a type. That’s kind of the point.”

“That’s not how it works, mate!” said Merlin, with a faint smile and a tilt of his head. “And anyway, you totally do.”

“Don’t.” With a vicious twist of his thumb, Arthur made Misterio take out a guard.

“Do.” Merlin was still staring at him.

“Pay attention you idiot!” said Arthur. Misterio fended off a sorcerer with a flurry of axe blows, but the sorcerer kept respawning. “Take out this sorcerer! You’re going to get us both killed.”

“You do, though.” Merlin turned back to the screen and attacked his controller with a flourish. Not before time, Wizziwig waved his hand at the sorcerer, lifting him high up on a bolt of light. “Not in terms of gender, I mean. Or looks, or build, or anything like that. But in general. You’ve got a massive hero complex. You go for the adorable, clumsy, ones who keep getting into trouble, so that you can rescue them. That’s why you love Aithusa. She’s like that.”

“I do not. Have. A. Type.” Pressing his lips together furiously, Arthur jabbed at the console. On the TV screen, Misterio bashed at the door in the corner of the dungeon repeatedly until it flew open, and the pair of them dashed through, Misterio tripping over his boots as they went. “That’s a total barefaced lie. And anyway, if anyone has a type in this household, it’s you. Quick, pick up that phial, we’ll need it in the next level!”

“What? No I don’t!” As Merlin turned to glare at him, he dropped his controller on the floor, but when he bent to retrieve it, he managed to knock his mug off the arm of the sofa. The mug smashed, and hot tea went everywhere. Merlin stared at it forlornly. “Oh, bugger.”

“Too late.” said Arthur. The cave was overrun with sorcerers, so he pressed the pause button and got up to clean the mess. “Don’t move, and don’t for God’s sake let Aithusa up— "

Yes, it was a bloody good thing that Merlin had Arthur as his flat mate. If – and he supposed it was inevitable at some point, so he should tee up that sentence with a “when”, not an if – when Merlin finally found someone suitable, someone who would take care of him, like Arthur did, they would need to be thoroughly checked beforehand. Arthur wasn’t going to let just anyone do it. They’d need training, to be frank. Because it wouldn’t do for Merlin to end up with anyone who’d yell at him for breakages. When he broke mugs, Merlin was just doing stuff that came as naturally to him as breathing.

Arthur would have to vet them very, very carefully.

*

“Scissors cut paper,” said Merlin, triumphantly, long fingers making a chopping gesture. “That’s best of three. You make the Earl Grey! Again!”

“I’m sure you’re cheating.” With a mock put-upon sigh, Arthur stood and filled the kettle, back turned to disguise his smile. As if he would have let Merlin make the tea. There were only so many mugs in the flat as it was!

Just then, Merlin’s phone, which was sitting on the table, started to vibrate. Merlin pressed the button with an apologetic shrug.

“Gwen!” he mouthed as he picked up his phone. “Hi Gwen! What’s up?”

As Gwen’s distant voice crackled into the room, Arthur pottered around pulling puppy food out of the cupboard and giving Aithusa’s water bowl a wash. He whistled tunelessly. He loved quiet weekend days like this, when Merlin had a rare weekend off, and there would be just the three of them in the flat. Sunshine filtering through the window, with maybe the prospect of an egg butty later. But when Merlin put his phone away in his pocket, his lips were turned down.

“What’s up?” said Arthur, setting the mugs carefully on the table, well out of the way of any flailing elbows.

“Gwen can’t puppy-sit next weekend.” Merlin frowned, tipping three teaspoons of sugar into his mug and swirling the pale liquid round before tapping his teaspoon on the side of the mug. “She’s going to Antwerp. She’s got some apprenticeship lined up, and I’m happy for her, really I am, but it does pose a problem.”

“Bugger.” The following weekend was the date for the British Fencing Championships. Arthur, as firm favourite for the gold medal at sabre, had been training for this competition for months. “I don’t suppose you could…”

“Arthur!” Merlin pursed his lips together. “I’ve got conjuring camp. It’s been booked for nearly a year!”

“Oh, bollocks. What are we going to do?” Arthur ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I can’t miss this! It’s my big chance! I’ve been trained to fence since birth!”

“Hah!” Merlin snorted and muttered something under his breath about how long Arthur had been training to be a pompous twat.

“Hah!” echoed Arthur. “You rude, insensitive bumpkin! I’m the favourite at this event, and I am definitely not missing it!”

“Hmm.” Merlin tilted his head and looked Arthur up and down appraisingly over the top of his mug. “I suppose you do look moderately fit.”

“Cheeky sod!” Mouth open in mock outrage, Arthur added two sugars to his tea. “I’m on top of my game.”

“You might want to knock off the sugars, though.” Merlin added thoughtfully, lips pursed together. “Just in case.”

“Merlin!” Arthur growled.

“I’m only teasing.” Merlin laughed out loud. “Look, it’s going to be okay, Arthur.” He took a sip of his tea, then shrugged. Pale brown liquid slopped over the side of his mug and onto the table, but luckily Arthur had had the foresight to put a mat down. “I know how much this weekend means to you. Don’t worry. Gwen says that she’s got a friend who can do it. Some mate of Elyan’s? Bloke called Gwaine. A firefighter. But he’s a bit down on his luck at the moment. He got injured rescuing a family last year, so he can’t work at the moment, and then he was evicted for not paying his rent, Gwen says. Poor bloke could do with the cash.”

“Gwaine?” Arthur scratched his head. The name rang a bell. “Wasn’t he that school friend of Elyan’s? The  one who lost both parents when he was a kid?”

“Really?” Merlin breathed, his eyes moist and dark. “Oh my God! The poor guy! And he’s homeless as well! That seals it. We must help him!”

“I suppose if Elyan thinks he’s ok then he’s probably fine.” Tamping down a brief sense of unease, Arthur reached for his mug and buried his nose in it, inhaling the clean fragrance of bergamot.

Because he hadn’t been joking about Merlin having a type. Merlin definitely had a type. He was a sucker for for the secretly noble, down-on-their-luck outcast with a tragic backstory. Look at Freya! And Lancelot! And by the sounds of things, this Gwaine bloke pretty much fitted the bill.

Still, Arthur contented himself with the thought that Merlin also had impeccably high standards – he must have, otherwise why would he have been single for the past two years? Merlin hadn’t had so much as a sniff of romance since Lancelot had buggered off to Nepal or wherever it was to “find himself”. A firefighter, eh? Oh well, no matter how charming and tragic he might be, the chances of this Gwaine geezer having the sort of looks and killer abs required to get past Merlin’s defences were pretty slim.

Yeah, Gwaine would probably turn out to be a beefed-up, balding macho type with scruffy facial hair and an unfortunate skin problem. Probably nothing to worry about.

*

Arthur couldn’t wait to show Merlin his gold medal. Merlin would look up at Arthur, his eyes all dewy and admiring, and then deliver a pithy, sarcastic one-liner that wouldn’t match his facial expression. What would he say now? Probably something about the opposition being a hippo.  The anticipation made a rueful smile play about Arthur’s lips.

The smile was still there when, pushing through the open door, his fencing kit clutched in his hand, Arthur drew in a breath to bellow at Merlin about leaving the flat unsecured yet again. But he paused when he heard voices from the kitchen. And laughter. And not a peep from Aithusa either, which meant that even she hadn’t noticed him coming in. Or, worse, that she’d actually escaped.

“Merlin!”

Scowling, he dumped his heavy kit on the floor in the hallway, taking a second to push the door properly closed behind him, and stalked into the kitchen, bursting through with a tirade about burglars and puppy thieves on his lips. Which was when he realised the extent of his mistake in letting this Gwaine fellow anywhere near Merlin.

“Arthur!” said Merlin, all startled eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“So I gather,” said Arthur, eyes narrowing at the strange man sitting next to Merlin at the kitchen table. “I’m Arthur,” he added, not even pretending to be friendly. “And you are?”

“Oh, this is Gwaine, our dog-sitter!” said Merlin, beaming, before Gwaine could reply.

“I gathered that, Merlin,” drawled Arthur. “But what I’m not so sure about is why he’s naked!”

“What? I hadn’t noticed!” said Merlin, but the colour that flashed up his cheeks gave the lie to his words. “Anyway, he’s not naked, not completely, anyway! I spilled my tea on him, that’s all.”

“Of course you did.” Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled out a chair, burying his head in his hands. This was not how his conversation with Merlin was meant to go at all. Thoroughly wrong-footed, he swept a tired hand through his messy, post-shower hair.

“Yeah, but he’s been very nice about it,” Merlin carried on, gazing at Gwaine with shining eyes. “And Aithusa loves him! And he says he’ll be happy to come and dog-sit for us again, any time.”

“Does he, now?” Frowning, his earlier good mood quite evaporated, Arthur eyed Gwaine, who was sitting, shirtless, and far too close to Merlin, bare feet propped up on Arthur’s mahogany kitchen table, and a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.

So much for Arthur’s assumption about a balding, overweight musclehead covered in badly drawn tattoos. The bastard was drop dead gorgeous, with a washboard stomach, hair straight out of an advert for expensive conditioner, and the sort of tan that could only be obtained from loafing around without a shirt on all summer. Still. At least the bloke was probably straight.

“Hi, Princess,” said Gwaine, flashing him a grin and not bothering to move his feet. “Merlin’s just been telling me all about you.” He looked Arthur up and down in open appraisal. “He didn’t tell me how hot you were, though.” Whistling through his teeth, Gwaine nodded admiringly. “Nice shoulders. Tidy arse, too! Fancy a threesome?” He waggled his eyebrows at Merlin, who blushed and let out a sound that Arthur would later swear was a giggle.

Not straight, then. Gorgeous, gay, interested, half naked, and out. Bugger. Arthur opened his mouth, but before he could blurt out something sarcastic and probably insulting, Merlin quieted him with a hand on his arm.

“Anyway!” Merlin said. “About Aithusa.” He nodded over at Gwaine, which is when Arthur realised that the treacherous puppy lay curled up on Gwaine’s lap, snoring and snuffling in her sleep. Traitor! “She adores Gwaine, and she hates being alone, and, you know, I was thinking that maybe when I’m doing nights and you have a heavy case load, Gwaine could— ”

“That won’t be necessary!” said Arthur, firmly, thinking fast, because there was no way that this disgustingly handsome layabout was going to be spending any more time alone with Merlin. “Absolutely not.”

“But why?” Merlin looked puzzled. “Aithusa loves him, he needs the work – he’d be perfect!”

“Because I— I—” Arthur floundered for a moment, before having a brainwave. “I’ve found someone else! Another dog-sitter, I mean. Who would obviously be much more suitable.”

“Really? Because last week you said that you didn’t know a single person who could— " 

“She’s a friend of my sister!” said Arthur, racking his brains for a way out of this predicament. “And— and— Aithusa’s a female dog. She needs female input.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Merlin, a puzzled crease appearing between his brows..

“It’s very important.” Arthur crossed his fingers under the table. “All the puppy manuals say so.”

“Ri-ight,” said Gwaine, flashing Arthur a knowing grin. “It’s like that is it? I see.”

“Like what?” Arthur scowled.

“I know when I’m not wanted.” Gwaine got up, dragging his tea-stained shirt off the back of the chair. “Nice to meet you Merls, give me a call if you fancy a beer sometime? That is if the Princess will let you out of his sight!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur glared.

 

“Don’t be such an arse, Arthur.” Merlin got up to let Gwaine out, and promptly tripped over his own Converses, sprawling across the floor. He ignored Arthur’s proffered hand and pulled himself up. “Do you want me to walk you back to Holloway Road tube, Gwaine?”

“Nah, you’re all right.” Gwaine flicked his hair with a nonchalant toss of his head that made Arthur want to bash him on the nose. “Any Arsenal supporter worth his salt knows this part of London like the back of his hand.”

Arthur snorted and picked up yesterday’s Guardian’s sports section. If Gwaine thought he was going to worm his way into Arthur’s affections by flaunting his football allegiances, well, he had another think coming.

When Gwaine had left, Merlin stomped back into the kitchen, stormy-faced and ranting.

“You rude, arrogant, stuck-up arse!” Merlin’s raised index finger quivered. “This dog sitter you’ve found had better have brilliant credentials.”

“She’s fantastic, Merlin, I swear.” Now that Gwaine had gone, Arthur could afford to be magnanimous. “I’m sorry, but I’m really very fond of Aithusa, and I just didn’t feel that scruffy Irishman was a suitable—”

“You patronising sod!” Merlin slammed his fists on the table in emphasis. “I don’t believe you sometimes! It’s as if you couldn’t possibly trust someone else to do something right for once! Gwaine’s perfectly capable of— "

“The only thing that sleazeball is perfectly capable of, is— is using our dog as a way of attracting admirers!” Arthur, beginning to get annoyed, stood and glared at Merlin.

“You’ve only just met him!” yelled Merlin. “And already you’re making judgments about him based on his appearance.”

“So have you!” said Arthur, indignant. “Look, Merlin, are you really telling me that you think he’s to be trusted with her? Anyway, aren’t you going to ask me how I— ”

“You’re such a snob.” Merlin glowered, eyes narrowing, and brows knitting together in a thick, angry knot that threw his eyes into shadow and emphasised his cheekbones. “And my conjuring weekend was great, thank you for asking. Oh, wait, you didn’t.”

The heavy bang that the door made in Merlin’s wake as he flounced out made Arthur wince.

Aithusa jumped up onto Arthur’s lap and lapped at his fingers.

“I won, you know,” he said, sadly, scratching behind her fluffy ears. She answered him with a tiny yip, and leapt down, trotting to her food bowl, claws tapping on the ceramic tiles. “Gold medal. British champion.”

Tiny slurping noises showed him how much attention Aithusa was paying to him.

He sighed. So much for his admiring family. So much for bathing in the glow of Merlin’s admiration and enjoying a moment of carefree banter. Merlin was pissed off with him, and replaying the events of the last few minutes Arthur could maybe appreciate why.

Okay, so Gwaine had been annoying as hell, but Merlin had been looking forward to that conjuring weekend for weeks, and Arthur didn’t even ask him how it went, and now Merlin was in his room, probably texting Gwaine to invite him back in, and who could blame him, with abs like those? And now Arthur was being irrational, because Merlin really wasn’t the sort to have a casual hook up with someone just because they were drop dead gorgeous and up for it, but really, Arthur couldn’t help it.

He swallowed thickly to throttle the sense of dread that rose in his throat. And on top of all that, now he had a whole new problem to solve. The minor issue of making a perfect, female dog sitter appear out of thin air. Sighing, Arthur fingered the outline of the gold medal through his thin, Arsenal t-shirt, and thought dark thoughts about firefighters for a moment or two before digging in his pocket for his phone.

His sister answered on the fourth ring, just when he thought that she was out. He was just resigning himself to a an unpleasant afternoon explaining to Merlin why he’d fabricated this mysterious female dog-sitter, when her acid tones penetrated his skull.

“Morgana?” Relieved, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to answer!”

“I thought twice about it,” she said. “This had better be good, little brother, because I’m having my nails done and you are interrupting at a critical stage.”

“Thank God you’re there! I won!”

“Congratulations, little brother.” Her voice warmed a little, in the manner of glaciers thawing in the sun before tightening up again for an epic overnight freeze. “Now, what do you really want?”

“Thanks.” He swallowed. “Right. Um, could you do me a little favour? Please? Look, you’ve got to help me. I need a female dog-walker, preferably someone hard on their luck— please, Morgana! I don’t ask you fur much— Yes, yes of course I’ll put in a good word for you with Leon, when have I ever— I know, I know it’s your birthday soon and I— It’s a matter of life or death! Please— ”

It took fifteen minutes of grovelling, and a promise to buy her a present that he’d probably need a second mortgage to pay for, but by the end of the call he had a name and a number. Which was when the day started to catch up with him. Fuck, and he still had to pick up his laundry before he could finally sink into his bed.

Closing his eyes, he pressed the hard, heavy metal of his medal through his t-shirt, and smiled wanly at himself in self deprecation. It was stupid, the victory alone should be enough for him, he had beaten the best in the country fair and square after all. But somehow that Gwaine bloke had managed to take the shine off his gold medal already. He had been looking forward to telling Merlin about it, that was all. All right. He may have imagined the shining-eyed expression on Merlin’s face as he recounted his exploits. Once or twice.

He buried his head in his hands and yawned, the drive and urgency of competition finally giving way to the heavy, energy sapping weight of exhausted muscles. He needed to soak in a hot bath, and replenish his reserves with a decent meal and some fluid, but the conflict with Merlin had leached all the impetus from his bones and all he couldn’t face even getting up from the table.

Running tired hands over his face, he tried to summon up the last dregs of energy from somewhere deep inside. When he looked up, Merlin was leaning against the door frame, eye sockets in shadow, arms folded.

“You look all in.” Merlin uncoiled himself from the door frame, stepping towards him.

“Yeah.” Arthur rubbed his eyes and yawned in what he hoped came across as a conciliatory manner, too tired to find the words to apologise, although they hovered on his lips, unspoken.

Aithusa yawned too, showing an array of sharp white teeth, in a tiny echo of his words that made Arthur exchange a fond look with Merlin as they watched her pad over towards her basket from her food bowl, attack her blanket and then curl up with her head on her paws. 

“Well?” Merlin waggled his hand in an ineffectual parody of a sword thrust, and then folded his arms again. “How did you get on, then?”

It was an olive branch. Arthur grabbed it with both hands.

“How do you think?” He smiled wanly.

“I’m guessing that you lost, or you’d be crowing right now.”

“Guess again.” Arthur dragged the medal out from under his t-shirt, and let it drop onto his chest with a self-deprecating shrug.

“I knew it!” Merlin’s face transformed, wreathed in smiles. Pulling up a stool, he sat next to Arthur, a little too close (not close enough), and rubbed at his arm. “See? All that panic, yesterday morning, all that “I’m not good enough, Merlin,” all that was uncalled for! I knew you’d do it! You’re the best! You worked your socks off for that medal, and you deserve it!”

“Yeah.” Despite himself, Arthur felt warmth steal through him, from Merlin’s touch and the praise. “Yeah, I suppose I am! This year, at least!”

“Told you.” Merlin’s eyes were a bright, happy blue and his hand still rested on Arthur’s shoulder. “God! My flatmate, British Champion! I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks!” Arthur smiled back at him for a moment or two, a little too long (not long enough), before Merlin abruptly withdrew his hand. 

“Well – um.” Merlin cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. When his gaze returned, eyebrows lifted in appraisal, head tilting on one side, his tongue poked out, heralding cheek. “Shame the opposition was a donkey!”

Ha! He knew it! Okay, so it was a donkey, not a hippo, but Bingo!

“Your _face_ is a donkey!” said Arthur, immediately, a heavy weight lifting from his chest that was nothing to do with his medal.

“Ha! Well, at least I don’t smell like one. Cabbagehead.”

“What, me?” Arthur made a show of sniffing his armpits. Despite his earlier shower, he was indeed a bit niffy, probably due to the long, stifling train journey home. But it would never do to admit it. “Mmm! Flowers!”

“Dunno what sort of flowers you have been sniffing, mate!” said Merlin, “Stinkroses? Stenchdaisies? Sweattulips?”

“Oh, ha ha!” Arthur barked out a genuine laugh. “Sweattulips? How long did it take you to come up with those names? I could hear the cogs whirring from here!”

Relief washed through him like a drug, because this was familiar ground. The light-hearted insults that had characterised their relationship over the many years of their acquaintance, ever since Merlin had literally bumped into him on campus, spilling his tea with one breath and calling Arthur a wide variety of vegetable-themed names with the next, was back, and Arthur felt like cheering. His shoulders relaxed, and his smile widened. They grinned at each other for what seemed like minutes, but probably wasn’t, and Arthur felt a sense of rightness blank out all the Gwaine-induced unease.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Merlin said, expression clouding. He bashed Arthur hard on the upper arm.

“Ow!” Wincing, Arthur rubbed at the spot with a pout. “That hurt!”

“You’re a bloody snob.”

“I know.” Arthur shrugged. The quip on his lips died when he took in the seriousness of Merlin’s expression. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and looked away, weariness slamming into him. “Look, Merlin, I— "

“I ran a bath for you.” Abruptly, Merlin stood up, and buried his hands in Arthur’s armpits, hauling him to his feet. “Come on, you great smelly lump.”

“I had a shower!” protested Arthur, dragging his feet, although a hot bath right now, to take the stiffness out of his aching legs and bring out the bruises that no doubt littered his torso, sounded heavenly.

“Pooh!” Merlin wrinkled his nose, manhandling Arthur through the door. “Stinky stonk. You reek. Aithusa agrees with me, don’t you Aithusa? Aithusa?”

“Yip!” barked Aithusa from her basket, head on her paws, blinking sleepily up at them through thick, white eyebrows.

“Not you as well!” said Arthur, rolling his eyes, and making himself as heavy as possible, just out of sheer relief that Merlin was talking to him again, and for the feel of Merlin’s hands against his rib cage, because he was selfish like that, and he’d take all the touches he could get. “Ganging up on me, all of you.”

“I should have known when you got home. The stench of _eau de competitive git_ should have given you away.” Merlin heaved and they lurched together along the corridor, Merlin’s tongue protruding out of the side of his mouth as it always did when he was exerting himself.

“You really are the rudest flatmate…”

“Save it for the bath.” Holding Arthur up with one hand, Merlin hauled at the bathroom door with the other. His mouth narrowed to a triumphant slit when he shoved Arthur inside, then the door slammed closed and Arthur was alone. “Or do you need me to undress you as well?” Merlin shouted through the door. “Like a big baby?”

“That won’t be necessary!” yelled Arthur, although he’d have been lying if he’d said that the thought didn’t flit through his mind for a moment. Or two. Or four.

Forget all about conjuring. Sometimes, Arthur was tempted to believe that Merlin really could perform actual miracles. Because the steaming tub frothed, fragrant with orange blossom and pink pepper, and when Arthur sank into it a few minutes later with a sigh, his grateful limbs sang a hymn of thanks. Forgetting all about fencing, and laundry, and tomorrow’s hectic work schedule, he lay back and dipped his head under the water, letting the scent and the bubbles and the heat leach all the tenderness and worry out of his heavy bones.

And as for Gwaine, with his stupid hair and his stupid, taut abs and his stupid, heroic backstory and his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ casual flirting, well, he could forget about Gwaine, too, because that bloody annoying bastard wouldn’t be troubling them again.

Would he?

 


	2. Merlin

*

Humming to himself, Arthur pulled his clean fencing jacket off the airer and shoved it into his kit bag with his mask, plastron and socks. He checked his watch. Half an hour to go until training. As he assembled the rest of his kit, he wondered what might have held Merlin up today - he should have been home nearly an hour ago. Surely he would be back soon?

Sure enough, just as Arthur was checking his glove, a complicated metallic sound heralded someone turning the key in the door. In response, Arthur filled the kettle with water from the tap and clicked it on. A few seconds later, slow, heavy footsteps tap-tapped along the wooden hall floor towards the kitchen. Arthur looked up from his kit bag just as the kitchen door swung slowly open.  

Sometimes, Merlin returned from a long shift at the hospital buoyant and thrilled, excited by his ability to intervene in someone’s life, and help them to return to health. But sometimes, on days like today, he would stumble through the door, shoulders slumped and eyes weary with some nameless anxiety.

“What’s up?” said Arthur, tamping down a sense of worry as he pulled the healing biscuit tin off the cupboard shelf, and set about preparing a hot chocolate.

“Nothing.” Yawning, Merlin laid his head on his forearms.

“You’re not fooling anyone.” Arthur pushed the mug at him. “Drink up. I prescribe two chocolate Hob-Nobs”

“Thanks.” Picking his head up as if it weighed a ton, Merlin buried his nose in the sugary liquid. “Thanks,” he said again.

They sat together in companionable silence for a while, Merlin propping his head up on his hand while he supped the chocolate and crunched the biscuits, sniffing occasionally.

“You can talk about it if you like,” said Arthur, quietly, gathering the used mugs and putting them into the dishwasher.

Because he got it. When Arthur had a bad day at the office, clients shouted, and deals didn’t get made. But when Merlin had a bad day at the office, children died. And maybe Arthur didn’t have a great imagination, but even he could understand that sometimes a soft-hearted idiot like Merlin couldn’t fail to be affected by it.

“I know,” said Merlin, looking up. There was a red patch where his face had rested on his arm, and his eyes were bright and rimmed with pink. He blinked and offered Arthur a watery smile that wobbled and faded. “It’s ok. I chose to specialise in Paediatric Oncology , after all. But thanks, anyway.”

“For heaven’s sake.” Arthur rolled his eyes, and tried to ignore the knot of worry that clenched in  his belly. He leaned forward and ruffled Merlin's hair until Merlin yelped, his face scrunching up in protest. “Stop thanking me, idiot!”

"Ow! Shut up, prat," said Merlin, pushing his hair back into place with one hand, a faint grin smoothing the pained lines on his forehead. "Anyway, shouldn't you be at training by now?" He made a show of checking his watch. "Yep! Bugger off and let me have some peace and quiet!" 

"Only if you promise not to mope!" said Arthur. A small strand of Merlin's hair was still sticking up. Arthur's fingers twitched, aching to tame that unruly curl. Instead, he clapped one hand onto Merlin's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 

"I don't mope!" Merlin protested, but at least a bit of colour had returned to his cheeks, and the storm clouds had lifted from his expression.

"In that case," deeming it safe to leave, Arthur swung his fencing kit bag onto one shoulder. "I'll see you later."

"Don't wake me up when you come in," said Merlin. "I'm on an early shift tomorrow." 

*

Merlin hated early shifts. Dragging his carcass out of bed at arse o'clock in the morning, and cycling through the dark and cold, while the city did what passed for sleeping in this twenty-four hour economy the government was always going on about, counted as one of his top three least favourite aspects of his job. It was right up there with comforting grieving parents dealing with a devastating diagnosis. Sometimes he had to do both on the same day.

But one of the admittedly vanishingly small number of perks of being on an early shift, assuming that it actually finished on time, was that Merlin could do _this_.

 _This_ being returning home early to sit on the sofa, thigh to thigh with Arthur, twisting his fingers gently in the soft down of a snoring Aithusa’s belly hairs, watching their favourite game show, Pointless. Arthur was trying as usual to outsmart Merlin, with mixed success.

“Tony Curtis,” said Arthur. “Stop hogging the popcorn.” He grabbed at the bowl and yanked it from Merlin’s hands.

“Oi!” Merlin made to snatch it back, but Aithusa twitched, and he didn’t want to wake her. “You bully. Anyway, that’s far too obvious. Marilyn Monroe!”

“If Tony Curtis is too obvious, so is Marilyn Monroe, you ninny!” Arthur chewed noisily at a greedy handful of popcorn, humming in pleasure, the git. “Mmmm! Lovely popcorn! Delicious!” His hand dived back into the bowl and came out stuffed with golden treasures. “Yum!”

“Jack Nicholson! No! The other one. The other Jack.”

“Jack Harkness?” interjected Arthur, helpfully.

“Idiot. No, it’s more like… Jack Hargreaves. No, it’s a vegetable of some sort. Jack Carrot? Or is it a fruit? Jack Melon?” Frustrated, Merlin poked Arthur hard in the ribs so that he lowered the hand carrying the popcorn for a nanosecond, long enough for Merlin to grab a handful. “Parsnip! No, lemon! Jack Lemmon! That’s it! It’ll have to do, because I literally don’t know a single other member of the cast.”

It transpired that the couple facing the Pointless jackpot didn’t know any other cast members either.

 _“I know a good one,”_ said Xander, host of the show, after the couple failed to win the miserly jackpot. _“Edward G. Robinson!”_

 _“Very good!”_ said co-host Richard admiringly. _“Anyone at home, if you got that, it’s a pointless answer!”_

“I’m sure they cheat,” said Merlin, sticking out his tongue and catching a fat lump of popcorn on it.

“Yeah,” said Arthur. His eyes followed the movement of Merlin’s tongue. “What’s the Xander / Richard ship name? Xichard or Rander sound wrong.”

“I dunno.” Merlin crunched. “They’re so into each other, those two. Richander, maybe? Or Xandard?”

“Xandard sounds like an evening newspaper.” 

Aithusa chose that moment to wake up. Her rough little tongue lapped enthusiastically at the salt on Merlin’s fingers. It tickled.

“So, who did you say is looking after Aithusa tomorrow night?” Merlin said. The show was finishing, and it was nearly time to get his stuff ready to go to his mum’s. “Gwaine said he could do it, you know!”

“That won’t be necessary!” said Arthur, standing up abruptly and flicking the telly off. “Morgana said that Aithusa will love Elena. Pasta or rice, tonight?”

“Rice would be nice, thanks Arthur.” Merlin yawned and stretched out his legs, grateful for Arthur’s excellent cooking. “But I still don’t know what you’ve got against Gwaine,” Merlin added mutinously, under his breath.

Sometimes Arthur just took against people for no reason. When Arthur had met Will, Merlin’s old school friend, for example, he’d come within a hair’s breadth of punching him on the nose, although in fairness Will had just called him a stuck up twat with a fencing stick up his arse, which wasn’t very nice. But it didn’t stop Merlin from trying to educate him.

“Call it instinct!” Arthur growled, pushing open the door to the kitchen. “Fancy a beer before I start cooking?”

“Great idea, yes please!” said Merlin.

When Arthur came back with the beers, they sat in companionable silence in front of the blank TV for a moment or two while Aithusa licked her paws.

“So, what’s she like then, this paragon, Elena?” said Merlin, his curiosity getting the better of him at last.

“She’s the daughter of one of my father’s friends, apparently.” Arthur shrugged and took a swig out of his bottle. “One of the hockey-sticks brigade. Sporty, a bit clumsy. Mad about horses. You know the type.” 

“Yeah.” Posh, then. Merlin frowned and worried at his lip with his teeth.

“If she’s good with horses, she’ll be great with dogs.” Glugging the rest of his drink in one go, Arthur leaned on the sofa to get up, and pushed through into the kitchen again, where clattering sounds and tuneless whistling signalled the preparation of food. “Don’t worry! You’d better go and pack. Curry or stir fry?”

“Curry please, Arthur,” said Merlin, yawning again, eyes drooping as he brooded about this Elena woman.

A bit clumsy? Something in Arthur’s description twisted Merlin's belly into worried knots. Because Arthur definitely had a type, no question. Upper class, sporty, and horsey were definitely desirable traits, but it was the clumsy aspect that gave him pause for thought. If she was outspoken and needed regular rescuing as well, Merlin would be in a whole heap of trouble.

His mind ran through the litany of Arthur’s clumsy exes.

Look at that time with Sophia, who couldn’t swim. When Arthur pulled her from the lake, he nearly drowned himself in the process, the clotpole. But Arthur and Sophia had ended up glued together, mouth to mouth, for weeks after that. It was moderately disgusting, not to mention heart-wrenchingly painful to watch. Merlin had been almost relieved when her Dad tried to steal Arthur’s Dad’s cash and it all went to pot, although it was never fun seeing Arthur hurting like that.

And then there was Vivian. Arthur rescued her from that rogue hypnotist and Bingo! Luckily she blew it when she impaled his foot on a stiletto some days later for failing to pop the question.

Which was shortly before Elyan came on the scene. Elyan, Gwen’s brother, who’d somehow found himself locked in Gwen’s flat with that sword-wielding maniac, Cenred. Their romance had started the second Arthur barged in through Gwen’s door and disarmed the startled Cenred with an umbrella. And Merlin really thought he’d lost Arthur for good that time, because Elyan was too damn bloody nice. Little wonder that Merlin had given up at that point and started dating Lancelot. But thankfully the whole relationship between Elyan and Arthur had fizzled out when Elyan had joined the Merchant Navy.

Anyway, Merlin’s fragile heart selfishly didn’t want any more damsels coming knocking at his door, thank you very much. And he was under no illusions. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know that some gorgeous, rich, vulnerable man or woman would whisk Arthur away from him one day, and God only knew that Arthur deserved a shot at happiness. But he had hoped it wouldn’t be quite this soon.

Still, he comforted himself with the thought that, as inbred aristocracy, Elena probably looked like a horse and laughed like one too. And, in terms of looks, Arthur’s standards ranged from stunning to drop-dead gorgeous. Nah, she didn’t stand a hope.

Nevertheless, doubt nagged at him as he went to pack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	3. Elena

Somehow, Merlin managed to banish his worries about Elena and enjoy his weekend with his mum, Will, and Freya, and all that crowd, but they returned in full force when he pressed open the front door to the flat, only to find a pair of scuffed, pink Converses nestling with Arthur’s black ones on the floor of the hallway. And his fears only magnified when the sounds from the living room reached him.

A tinkle of infectious female laughter, mingled with Arthur’s more raucous guffaw. And worst of all, the sound of the Xbox.

“Gotcha!” crowed a triumphant but unfamiliar girlish voice.

“Wow! Genius!” Arthur’s voice held a hint of admiration that made Merlin’s heart sink to his boots. “I’ve never seen the sorcerers beaten by a kickboxing ninja sorceress before!”

“Ha! Ninja high kicks are my speciality on and off screen.” Her voice, far from being plummy and clipped, positively oozed charm and charisma. “Take that, suckers!”

With a sinking sense of doom, Merlin pushed open the door. Cold horror made him shiver. For Arthur was grinning inanely at the screen, with a quite frankly devastating beauty by his side. Hair like spun gold framed her elfin features. She wore an open, friendly smile that made Merlin want to punch her in the face, and an Arsenal away kit that fit snugly to her womanly curves.

Aithusa, sitting on the floor in front of her, head on the girl’s lap, didn’t even get down to greet Merlin as he came in through the door.

“Hi.” Merlin waved vaguely at the fully occupied sofa. “How was your dad?”

“Oh, fine.” Arthur frowned at the screen. “Bloody hell, quick, Elena, there are wyverns! Does kickboxing work on a wyvern attack?”

“Oh, hi Merlin, nice weekend, Merlin? How’s your mum, Merlin?” said Merlin airily. “Oh, not bad thanks, if you ignore her frequent and lengthy political tirades and eccentric cooking techniques! Good journey, Merlin? Yeah, great, thanks, in some alternative universe where sitting on the hard floor of a creaking train, listening to some deaf, aging rocker’s tinny earphones is fun. We have a guest in our flat, Merlin, let me introduce you!”

“I’m very sorry, Elena. Don’t mind Mr Grumpyguts, my flatmate,” said Arthur, performing a complex manoeuvre with his controller and tilting his head to follow the movement. “Show me how you did that move with the kick-boxing!”

“Oh, right, yeah!” She grinned and waved apologetically at Merlin, dislodging Arthur’s beer from the table with a wayward foot. “Whoops!”

“Klutz!” said Arthur, goodnaturedly, swiping a tissue out of the box on the table and mopping at her jeans.

“Well, I’ll just… erm…” Merlin gestured at the door, because there was obviously no room for him on the sofa, plastered a false wide-mouthed smile to his face, and stumped off into his bedroom. Throwing himself on his bed, he glared at the ceiling, thinking dark thoughts about blondes in general and this Elena woman in particular.

Well, fuck. Clumsy, gorgeous, an Arsenal supporter, and brilliant at Xbox.

Maybe it was time he moved out and got the fuck over this ridiculous, painful crush on his best mate. Because every the day the ties that bound him to Arthur grew stronger and tighter, and yet, the yawning chasm between what Merlin wanted and what he could have grew ever wider.

His musings interrupted by a muffled buzzing noise, he rummaged in his bag, and retrieved his mobile.

“Fancy a pint?” said the message from Gwaine.

Well, if nothing else it would be a welcome distraction.

On a whim, Merlin picked up his phone and typed out a reply.

*

“ _— where’s the soap?_ Says one. _Yeah it does, doesn’t it?_ Says the other. Geddit?” Eyes dancing with mischief, Gwaine nudged Merlin and grinned. “Where’s the soap— _wears_ the soap! Oh, I’m good!”

“Stop, stop, stop!” Merlin held his sides, which ached. “Oh God, that’s terrible!” Snorting into his pint, shoulders shaking in mirth, Merlin wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

All around them the hubbub of the pub droned, reflecting off the dimly lit ceiling, compressing him and Gwaine into an ever-tightening bubble of intimacy. Snatches of conversation drifted over to them.

“— was a scenery mover— ”

 “— nah, bro, got stuff I gotta— ”

“— on a fucking conveyor belt— ”

“— Alsatians can be prone to— ”

Tuning them out, Merlin focused on the quirk of Gwaine’s lips and the tilt of his head. Gwaine had kind eyes and a hawkish nose that didn’t detract from his charm at all. If Merlin hadn’t been helplessly and hopelessly in love with someone else, he’d have been quite interested.

This had been a terrific idea. Not only did Gwaine actually find Merlin’s conjuring tricks impressive, his non-stop supply of awful jokes drove all Merlin’s worries away and numbed the painful twinges that assaulted him when he thought about pretty people with blond hair. In fact, the painful twinges weren’t the only things getting numb. Thanks to the fruity hop-scented deliciousness that foamed into his pint pot at regular intervals, even Merlin’s lips were getting numb. He prodded them with a curious finger, and giggled. 

“There,” said Gwaine, signalling to the barkeep with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his glass. “That’s better. You were positively gloomy when you got in here!”

“Yeah.” Merlin fiddled with his beer mat, shredding it with anxious fingers. “It’s Arthur. My prat mate. I mean flat mate.” Dropping the beer mat, or the remnants of it at least, he picked up his rapidly emptying glass and guffawed into it. “Prat mate suits him though!”

“Got the hots for him, haven’t you,” asked Gwaine, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I have not!” Merlin stared at Gwaine. Was it that obvious? “I really, really, hate him. He’s got horrible hair, and eyes, and— and— bum. Quite horrible. And his face. His face is ugly. Horrible jaw, horrible cheekbones, vile blue eyes. Ugh. Quite rel— rel— repl— repellent. ”

“That bad, eh?” Gwaine laughed.

“Sneaky bastard, probing my secrets.” Merlin waggled his glass, which slipped out of his grip, but he grabbed at it with the other hand and it righted itself. “I‘ve nearly f’nished. I’ll ‘ave another one of those too, please.”

“Sure?” Kind, brown eyes peered at him. “You look a bit tips— "

“I’m fine!” To emphasize his words, Merlin swigged the rest of his pint in one gulp, and then held the empty glass up. “Sober ‘s a jutch.” Belching loudly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then the hiccups started. “Bug— hic— ugger!” The bar stool wobbled a bit at the movement, and it started to tip back. “Whee!”

“Whoa! Come on mate.” Gwaine pushed both their glasses to the back of the counter out of the reach of Merlin’s flailing arms, and propped him up with a hand to the back. “Wow, you’ve only had a couple!”

“Arthur says m’ a ligh’weigh’!” said Merlin, with a frown. “Condesh— con— condeshend’n’ prat.” He pinched his nose. “Can’t feel m’ nose. What’s in that stuff? Anas— anaesth— numb juice?”

Of course, that had to be the moment when his chair finally toppled backwards. Windmilling furiously, Merlin described a far from graceful arc and landed on something soft that let out a manly cry.

“Merlin, you complete idiot!” said a familiar, disapproving voice from somewhere beneath Merlin’s left shoulder.

“Yip!” Aithusa’s enthusiastic tongue described happy licks across Merlin’s face.

“Ugh!” Rolling to one side, Merlin propped himself up on one elbow, gaze meeting a pair of scowling blue eyes. “Oops?” he added. “Arthur? ’Thusa? What‘re you doing— hic— here? Where’s yer gir’fren’?”

“My what? Oh! Elena! She’s in the loo.” Arthur’s face blurred and went in and out of focus as he  hauled Merlin to his feet. “Aithusa forced us out and followed your scent like a dog on a mission. Always knew you were her favourite.” There was the sensation of being manhandled, and Merlin lurched alarmingly to one side before being righted. “God, you’re bladdered, you daft idiot,” Arthur added, under his breath.

“Yer face is an idiot, clo— hic— clopple. Pole. Clo’pole!” Cold, wet, beery patches on Merlin’s arm and face hinted at the remnants of his pint. He belched and squinted at Arthur. Several pairs of worried eyes swam in and out of focus. “Faces,” he amended.

The room was moving in unsteady spirals that made Merlin’s head spin and his hands clammy. He swallowed, wishing it would stop. Distantly he registered Arthur arguing with Gwaine.

“Look, mate,” Gwaine was saying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise he’d had quite that much. I’ll help you walk him home…”

“Oh no, you don’t,” said Arthur in his most emphatic tone, the one that he normally reserved for his sister, and probably the more stubborn of the defendants in the courtroom, all hard and no-nonsense with that note of command, the one that made Merlin shiver and his insides go all gooey. “You’ve done quite enough. You and Elena will walk Aithusa back. And then you can walk Elena home. It’s plain to me that you can’t be trusted with this idiot. I’ll deal with him myself.”

“Oooh! Promishes, promishes!” slurred Merlin.

“Who’s Elena?” said Gwaine at the same time.

“You’d like her,” Merlin hiccoughed, swaying with the force of it. “Sh’pretty. S’ports Ars’— hic— nal. Aithusa loves her. Arthur lurrrves her.”

“Jesus. What’s got into you?” Arthur grabbed Merlin’s arm and wrapped it round his shoulder, steadying him. “Last time you got this wankered was the first time you lost a paediatric patient. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

When they got outside, the cold air hit him like a freight train. But Arthur must have got him home, somehow, because the next thing he knew he was sitting on the bed, cuddling a bucket.

“Drink this!” said Arthur, roughly, tearing the bucket from Merlin’s unresisting grip. He shoved a pint of water in Merlin’s hand and closed Merlin’s fingers around it. “Or you’ll feel like death tomorrow. Are you on earlies?”

“Lates!” said Merlin, meekly, slurping at the water and spilling only a tiny bit onto his covers. “All week. Till Wednesday. Lates.” He gazed mournfully at the glass, tears prickling at his eyes. “S’ not fair.” He sniffed. He didn’t like doing lates. When he did lates, he never saw Arthur at all, because Arthur left early in the morning and wasn’t home before Merlin had to leave to go to work at five in the evening, and by the time Merlin got home it was gone two in the morning, and he missed Arthur. So very, very much. And, God, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you complete idiot.” With an air of fond exasperation that belied the harshness of his words, Arthur crossed the room to pull the curtains closed. “It’s only a few days. And anyway, what were you thinking, getting that plastered on a Sunday? Blithering nincompoop.”

The light in Merlin’s bedroom dimmed and he yawned, suddenly overcome with weariness. It was warm in his room, and the covers were very soft. If only whoever had set the world spinning would stop.

Arthur grumbled and scolded even as he grabbed the empty glass from Merlin’s hand, then hauled covers up around Merlin’s chest and down around his cold feet. And even though Merlin’s head span and his stomach churned, there was a warm feeling deep in his gut as his eyes followed Arthur’s movements.

God, he would miss Arthur so very much, when he and Elena got married. But Arthur deserved all the happiness in the world, really, he did, even if it would break Merlin’s heart. And Elena seemed very friendly. He hoped she and Arthur would be very happy together.

And, oh dear, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud either. 


	4. Dennis Bergkamp

Cupboards, Merlin thought, could tell you a lot about a person. The mugs in their kitchen cupboard, for example, many of which had been cracked over the years in tea-related incidents, mostly by Merlin, and restored lovingly to life, mostly by Arthur, told the story of their friendship through slogans and quips. Cartoons about personal milestones hinted at the professions and passions of two men who had been friends since their late teens. Other people, who didn't know Arthur as well as Merlin did, might think that he was a cold, practical sort of person. But Merlin knew better. Arthur cared for people, and about them, with a selfless generosity that inspired devotion in those who got to know him.

And, oh, God, he would miss Arthur when he moved out. He would miss Arthur's tidiness, of course, and his cooking, and his precision of movement. Arthur's fluffy golden hair and his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw. He would even miss Arthur's Dennis Bergkamp mug, the one with the chipped handle, which had a photo of Dennis on it that bore an uncanny resemblance to Arthur himself. But most of all he would miss their companionship, the daily back and forth that banished Merlin's many cares and made his heart sing and his veins fizz. 

Glumly, he opened the cupboard he'd been staring at, and was just about to select a pair of mugs when a warm body at his elbow pushed him firmly but gently out of the way.

"I'll get the tea," said Arthur, skilfully extracting a pair of mugs and a teapot with one hand whilst guiding Merlin towards the table with the other. "Wouldn't want some clumsy bumpkin dropping your favourite mug, now, would we?"

And this was the thing that people didn't know about Arthur. That prattish exterior was a mask. Beneath it lurked a kind, compassionate person. One who cared about mugs, and the people who dropped them. But soon, if Elena got her way, Merlin might have to live out the rest of his life with an increased risk of mug-related injuries. The thought made his insides do flip-flops. And in truth, it wasn't the fear of mugs _per se_ that made those unpleasant swooping sensations plague his stomach and chest. No, it was a much more visceral dread than that: the looming inevitability of abandonment. 

"Your face is a clumsy oaf," said Merlin, but his voice lacked its usual vim. It's hard to quip with the required amount of gusto when your heart is so close to breaking. "Anyway. You're just protecting Dennis. Arsenal always comes first with you. Don't think I don't know." 

"You have discovered my evil secret. Have a read of today's Guardian and munch a chocolate Hob-Nob while I sort this lot out." He set about making the tea and preparing Aithusa's breakfast bowl while Merlin sat down and stared at the newspaper.

When he'd finished, he sat opposite Merlin, regarding him with a lazy flip of eyes so blue and intent that they made him shiver. 

“What?” Merlin swiped at the corner of his mouth.  “Do I have chocolate on my face?”

“Nothing.” Arthur looked down at his beloved Dennis Bergkamp mug, and took a slurp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You keep staring at me.” Frowning, Merlin glugged the contents of his own favourite mug, the _Keep calm and don’t kill the patients!_ one that Arthur had given him for his birthday.

“I do not.”

“Don’t deny it! Ever since that… that… that night. You know.” Heat crept up Merlin’s cheeks at the recollection of waking up, fully clothed, with a bucket over his face, and no idea of how he got there. “Last weekend.”

“You mean the night when that reckless bloody fireman, Gwaine got you completely shit-faced?” 

“Yeah,” Merlin breathed on the surface of his tea so that it rucked up in tiny ripples. It was still too hot to drink. “That one. You’ve been looking at me funny, ever since.”

“I do not keep looking at you funny, Merlin,” growled Arthur, looking down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with an idle finger as if fascinated by it. “Why would I want to look at your ugly face, anyway?”

“Now you’re avoiding meeting my eyes.” Merlin rummaged in the biscuit tin and fished out the last chocolate Hob-Nob with a cry of triumph.

“I am not! Give me that!” Grabbing the tin off him, Arthur dug into it with eager hands and pulled out a Jammy Dodger.

“Are you sure you should be eating that?” said Merlin, slyly. “Won’t it ruin your training regime?”

“I’m fighting fit.” Scowling, Arthur shovelled a second Jammy Dodger in his mouth.

“Was it something I said?” asked Merlin. Anxiety made him shiver, as if icy fingers played up and down his back.

“Well, yes, come to mention it,” said Arthur. “Insinuating that I need to watch what I eat for one thing— "

“Not that, clotpole! I mean was it something I said on Sunday night?” What if he'd said something he shouldn't? Did he say something to Arthur about his feelings? The thought made his heart clamour in his chest.

“Oh.” But Arthur didn’t supply anything more useful as an answer.

“Well something’s bothering you, anyway.” Merlin racked his brains, but for the life of him couldn’t remember anything beyond laughing at Gwaine’s ridiculous jokes in the pub. He looked sadly at the top of Arthur’s bowed head, and wished that things could go back to normal again, between them. At least for the short time that they had left together, before Elena, or if not her then someone equally gorgeous, stole Arthur away. But what had he said last weekend? He wasn't sure that he really wanted to know. What if Arthur was going to talk to him now, what if he was trying to let Merlin down gently? His throat felt suddenly dry, and he took a swig of his tea. It didn't help. “You’ve been all brooding, too.”

“I do not. Brood!” Arthur did glance up, then, eyes a flash of radiance in the sun that streamed in through the kitchen window, before resuming his study of the tabletop. “Nothing is bothering me. I’m fine.”

But even in that tiny glance, Merlin could tell that the speculative look in Arthur’s eye was there again 

“Well,” said Merlin. “Whatever it was, I apologise. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And yet,” said Arthur, “they do say _in vino veritas_ , don’t they?”

"What do you mean, _in vino veritas_?" said Merlin. A rising tide of worry washed over him. Fuck. Fuck! He had said something! His hands felt all clammy.

But Arthur rose to his feet, pulling his vibrating phone out of his pocket.

“Hello? Hi, Morgana! What’s up? No I will _not_ go to see _Klassenverhältnisse_ with you again— I don’t care if it is genius! It’s not my cup of tea, that’s all. Was that it? What do you mean, Father insists? Look, I’m busy this weekend, all right— " Shrugging apologetically, he pointed at his phone and left the room, the door closing quietly in his wake. 

 _In vino veritas_? So it was something that Merlin had said when he was pissed. What could he have possibly said that had Arthur in such a tizz? But no matter how furiously he tried to remember, his mind drew a stubborn blank.

"What do you think, Dennis?" he glared at Arthur's still steaming mug of tea. But Dennis Bergkamp just glared back at him, silent as usual. 

When Arthur came back in again, his forehead was knotted, and mouth down-turned. He looked so miserable and tired that Merlin, concerned, put his insecurities for one side for a moment.

“What’s up?” said Merlin.

“Next weekend.” Arthur sighed, drawing his hand up over his forehead so that his hair peaked like Tin-Tin’s, or, and Merlin was proud of himself for knowing this, Dennis Bergkamp's _circa_ 1986\. “Father wants me to come and meet his new girlfriend. But you’re working aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Merlin had a block of weekend shifts coming up. “No more time off at weekends for me for a while.”

“Bugger.” Sighing, Arthur put his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling. “And Gwen’s still away in Antwerp, correct?”

“Correct.”

They stared at each other, then at Aithusa, then at each other again.

“Not Elena,” said Merlin, firmly.

“Definitely not Gwaine!” said Arthur at the same time. “Wait. What’s wrong with Elena?”

“Too. You know. Bouncy.” Merlin fished around for something bad to say about her, but came up with nothing. “Oh, fine.” He swallowed and forced his words out. “I admit it. She’s lovely. But…” he trailed off, frowning at the floor, fishing for the right way to explain how he felt.

“But what?” Arthur was giving him that funny look again, the one that made his jaw tense, and put a thin line between his brows, as if he was trying to fathom out some puzzle. It was odd, that look. Decidedly un-Arthurish. And it made tiny darts of tension shoot across Merlin’s guts and tug at his insides. Made his brain stutter and his mouth go dry, chasing every coherent thought from his head, until he realised that he’d been staring at Arthur’s lips for what seemed like several minutes, and Arthur was still waiting for his reply.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling, then down at his hands, then down at the floor in a vain attempt to gather his muddled thoughts. “Um. Well. All right. Ask Elena. If that’s what you want. But promise you won’t let her steal my place on the sofa this time?” he said, finally, in a small voice, chasing one of Aithusa’s chews around with his big toe, which she pounced on, small and heavy upon his foot. “Ow! Stop that, Aithusa! It tickles!”

“Your spot on the sofa? Is that what’s bothering you?” Arthur’s grip was warm on his shoulder. 

Merlin gulped, remembering how cosy Elena's pink Converse's had looked nestled alongside Arthur's black ones. A tight band of tension tugged at his chest. He opened his mouth, on the edge of blurting it all out. But the words wouldn't come and he just stared at Arthur dumbly.

"Or is there something else you want to tell me?"

"Yep, I mean nope!” Merlin croaked, fighting off a heavy sense of doom, to plaster a bright smile onto his face. If Arthur wanted Elena, then Merlin would not stand in his way. He was a better friend than that. But there were limits. There was a principle involved here. She might take Arthur away, and with him Merlin's heart, but she would not take Merlin's place next to Arthur on the sofa. "Just the sofa thing."

"I see," said Arthur. A flash of something that Merlin couldn't interpret clouded Arthur's expression for a second. “Right. Fine. Have it your way. I do solemnly vow that the only person allowed to occupy your spot on the sofa is Aithusa. Okay?”

“Pinkie swear?” Merlin proffered a little finger.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake—" Despite Arthur’s put-upon sigh, exaggerated eye-roll and exasperated tone, a tiny smile tugged at one corner of his lips, and he held out his pinkie finger, which Merlin took to be a good sign. “Fine. If you promise not to invite that shifty, shiny-haired firefighter over, you’ve got a deal.”

“What, Gwaine? Hmm.” Merlin pretended to think about it for a few seconds, until Arthur’s finger twitched as if about to withdraw. “Okay, okay!” he said hastily. “I won't invite Gwaine over to take care of Aithusa. I pinkie promise!” He hooked their fingers together with a grin.

They shook their hooked-together hands, and the deal was sealed. So why did dread still clutch at Merlin's gut whenever he thought about the coming weekend?

 


	5. Arthur

Dear God! He hoped he’d never have to sit through a weekend like that again. The sooner his father got over that horrendous woman, Catrina, the better. His stomach was still in turmoil after the meal that she’d cooked. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that she was trying to poison him. Besides which, a noxious scent followed her around Uther’s house. Still, he was looking forward to describing her to Merlin.

Merlin would be home from his early shift soon. And Arthur would explain that the horrible Catrina was clearly some sort of denizen of Hades, accompanied by a whiff of sulphur wherever she went. And Merlin would scoff and tell him that she couldn’t smell much worse than Arthur after one of his fencing competitions. It would degenerate into a mock fight, with Merlin squirming ticklishly under the onslaught of Arthur’s questing fingers. And maybe, just maybe, Arthur would pluck up the courage to mention his suspicions about Merlin’s feelings. He hadn’t imagined Merlin’s drunken declaration, had he? But sadly Merlin seemed to have forgotten the whole thing.

Another lurch of his stomach interrupted this disconcerting daydream. God, what had she put in that vile casserole? Arsenic? Muttering to himself, he pushed through the door.

A sudden hail of barks greeted him and Aithusa hurtled out into the hallway, tongue lolling out in a happy doggy grin. As he bent to greet her, fondling her soft ears, a powerful sense of homecoming made him smile.

“Well, hello!” he said chuckling as her bottom wagged furiously. “How’s Daddy’s best girl then? Has she been a good dog? Has she? Has she had fun with her new friend?” One of the nice things about having a puppy was that he could indulge in this sort of silly baby talk without fear of ridicule.

She yipped in reply, and painted his face in slobbery licks.

“Ugh!” he said, laughing and turning his head away. “Aithusa, sit!”

She put her still-wagging bottom on the floor, and gazed up at him with adoring, limpid eyes. Patting her a final time, he stood up.

“Where’s Elena then?” he said. A pair of pink Converses on the doormat showed that she was still there. “Show me, there’s a good girl. Find her, then! Find Elena! And if you’ve been a good dog, then maybe we can find a treat, shall we?”

Her tail thumped enthusiastically, and she whined, tilting her head to one side.

“Go on then! In the kitchen then!””

Panting, Aithusa took off obediently, headed towards the kitchen. Arthur followed her further into the hallway.

“Elena?” he called, hanging his suit jacket on the hook as he strode towards the living room, and slackening his tie. “I’m back!”

But the grinning face that stared back at him from the sofa wasn’t hers, oh no.

“Ah, hello, Princess!” That unfairly handsome Irishman, Gwaine, was sitting, comfy as you please in a pair of jogging bottoms and thinning t-shirt, with his bare feet perched upon the arm of Arthur’s sofa. And what’s more, he had Arthur’s Xbox controller clutched in his left hand!

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Arthur. Sudden disappointment and dread coursed through his veins, not to mention the deep sense of betrayal that made his throat tense and his voice crack. Merlin had promised! He tugged off his tie with a ferocious snap, and undid the top button of his immaculately pressed, pink Turnbull and Asser shirt. “Was this Merlin’s idea? Where is Elena? And my dog? What the hell are you doing loafing around my house?”

“Whoa, Princess!” Gwaine tossed his hair out of his eyes, but didn’t pick his feet up. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist! I was invi— "

“I don’t care what Merlin says, after that fiasco in the pub, you’re not welcome here. Piss off and don’t come ba— "

“Er, Arthur?” Elena’s face peeped out from behind the kitchen door. “Erm. Sorry? I invited him? He’s with me?”

“Elena?” Arthur gaped at her.  “What?”

“Yeah.” She emerged, blinking apologetically, with Aithusa at her heels and a pair of mugs in her hand. “You see, after the thing that happened at the pub, you know, Gwaine and I, we sort of, well. Hooked up, you know? He was so funny and he walked me home. And Aithusa liked him, so I thought you wouldn’t mi— "

“Look out!” yelled Arthur and Gwaine at the same time.

But it was too late. With mounting horror, Arthur watched the events unfold as if time had slowed to slow motion. Arthur and Gwaine leaped forward together to stop her. But she was still chattering, looking at the two men, and not at where she was going, when she stepped, barefoot, hard down on Aithusa’s favourite chew. She didn’t stand a chance. Eyes widening in surprise, she went sprawling. A fountain of steaming tea erupted from the mugs.

Arthur stepped back in the nick of time, to avoid ruining his expensive tailored shirt, but she managed to drench Gwaine in scalding liquid.

“Oops!” she said, peering up at them through a cascade of messy, tea-stained blonde locks.

“Whoa!” Gwaine yelled, peeling off his t-shirt, and casting it upon the floor to reveal a rack of, quite frankly, unnecessarily ripped abs.

“Oh, bollocks.” Arthur tore his begrudgingly admiring gaze away from this display to eye the tangled heap of woman on the floor instead. Sighing, he held out a hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, pulling herself up onto one elbow, face scrunching in worry. “But Gwaine, are you all right? The tea was very hot! I’m so sorry!”

“Luckily for you, I have lightning fast reflexes.” Gwaine grinned at her, his teeth gleaming by the light of a stray ray of sunshine that streamed in through the window. “I’ll go and clean off in your bathroom, shall I, Princess? I know the way.” He was swaggering out into the corridor before Arthur could invent a reasonable objection.

“Yip!” said Aithusa, licking enthusiastically at the puddle of hot tea on the wooden floor.

“Sorry!” said Elena again, biting her lip. Her voice wobbled and her eyes were suspiciously bright. “I’m such a fuck-up. I didn’t know you didn’t want Gwaine to— and now I’ve ruined your floor, and— well, now Gwaine will hate me! Why am I such an idiot?!”

“Don’t be silly.” Arthur reached down to pull her up. Her shoulders were shaking. “Gwaine is a grown-up, and the flooring is very hard-wearing!”

After all, it wasn’t as if the floor hadn’t suffered similar problems in the past. It was not just aesthetics that had led him to choose wood flooring and leather furniture. With Merlin living in the house, wipeable fixtures and fittings were a practical necessity.

“But I spilled your tea, and the mug is broken!” She sniffed, clutching at his shirt as she sobbed against his shoulder.

“There, there.” He patted awkwardly at her back in what he hoped was a consoling manner.  “It was Merlin’s mug anyway. And it’s not as if he doesn’t break them all the time. He won’t even notice. He’s the clumsiest person I’ve ever— Are you sure you’re not related to him?”

“You’re too nice.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt. He noticed that she smelled faintly of strawberries.

Between her sniffles, there was a faint sound behind him. It vaguely resembled the front door opening and closing again.

“What was that?” he said, still holding her shoulders as he glanced behind him.

“What was what?” She looked up at him blearily, and rubbed at red-rimmed eyes.

Aithusa had clearly heard the noise as well. She stood ramrod straight, tail wagging slowly. Then with a happy bark, she hurled herself at the living room door, pushed it with a paw, and scampered through.

“Aithusa?” Releasing Elena’s shoulders, Arthur followed.

And it was a good thing that he did. Because, to his horror, the front door was wide open. Worse, he was just in time to see Aithusa’s shaggy, white tail disappear through it! Oh no! She’d escaped! But he knew that he had closed the door when he came in!

“Aithusa! Come back here!” Pausing only to pull on his trainers, he ran out, down the stone steps to the road. “Wait!”

Aithusa was trotting purposely along the pavement, twenty metres away, nose to the ground. But hearing his voice, she accelerated onwards, tongue flopping out as if this was some great game.

Without even pausing to do up his shoelaces, Arthur sped to a run, hoping to intercept Aithusa before she did anything stupid like crossing a road.


	6. Aithusa

It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. There was only one person who regularly left the front door open with no thought for security, or the safety of his pet. Bloody Merlin, who for some reason must have come in and then taken off again like a rocket when he’d seen Arthur consoling Elena in their living room.

Arthur cursed his flatmate for jumping to conclusions. A wild thought struck him. Sudden giddiness made his face pink and his heart thump. Why would Merlin be so adamant that Elena could not come around to their flat? Why would he run away upon encountering Arthur embracing her?

God, Arthur had been so stupid! The realisation washed over him like a wave. A gnawing pain clawed at his belly, whether from hope, anxiety or Catrina’s vile cooking, he couldn’t tell. But where was Merlin, now? He could only hope that Aithusa knew.

He nearly caught up with Aithusa at the corner near the synagogue, but he slipped on some wet leaves and she scampered away from his grasp. By the time he had brushed off the worst of the mud, she had disappeared altogether. He stood at the entrance to the park, hands on hip, scanning the horizon for signs of either Merlin or the dog.

It didn’t take him long to find them. Although it was a Sunday, the weather was damp and grey, and the park wasn’t busy. Both Merlin and Aithusa were fond of the area near the pond. Sure enough, as he approached a forlorn, lone figure on a bench, it resolved into the unmistakeable shape of a beanpole, hugging a struggling Cockapoo. An unbearably fond warmth spread through Arthur’s chest at the sight.

“Merlin!” Schooling his features into a stern expression, he sprinted the final twenty metres. “You blithering idiot! One of these days she’s going to get run over, following you! Or kidnapped! Or worse! You know there are gangs stealing dogs as bait for dog-fights in this area. I dread to think what might have— "

“Arthur? What are you doing here?” A pair of blue eyes peeped at him through a thatch of Aithusa’s fur. She barked and licked Merlin’s nose. He wrinkled it in disgust. “Ugh! Aithusa! Cut that out!”

“More to the point,” said Arthur, sitting down on the empty end of the bench. It was wet, and he could feel cold water seeping into his best, made to measure, wool suit trousers. But he ignored it. Some things were more important than impeccable tailoring. “What are _you_ doing here? Shouldn’t you be relaxing after a busy shift?”

“Nothing.” Face downcast, Merlin picked at the fabric of his winter coat.

“Nothing?” Arthur nudged him.

“Well, all right.” Merlin’s mouth folded into a mutinous line, and he sniffed. “It’s just that— You promised. You pinky swore!” An unhappy downtilt emerged at the edges of his mouth, and his eyes glistened. “Well, I mean, technically. It was just a promise about the sofa. But, still. I thought— And then you were cuddl— Oh, never mind. She’s your type, I know that. I mean— " He bit his lip, breath hitching, glancing off to the distant sky.

“Look.” Arthur swallowed in a vain attempt to control his rapid breathing.

Although they were sitting close together, thighs almost touching, something vast and terrifying loomed in the air between them. He took a deep breath or two, trying to find the words to tackle it.

“Look,” he tried again. “About that. Elena, I mean. We weren’t cuddling, not really. She was just sad because she had dropped something. I— she— I mean, she’s not my type.” To emphasize his words, he put his hand on Merlin’s where it rested on the bench.

“She totally is!” Merlin harrumphed, but he didn’t move his hand. “She’s clumsy, gorgeous, really sweet and kind, Aithusa loves her— "

“No she isn’t! My type, I mean! Idiot.” That wellspring of fondness rose in Arthur’s chest again, making it ache. “And neither am I hers! She’s seeing Gwaine, Merlin!”

Merlin turned his head sharply at that, and his lips parted in surprise. Before he could reply, Arthur went on.

“And anyway,” he said. “I should know, after all, what my own type is! And, well, since you mention it, maybe I do have a type. Yes. And some of those things, yes, they fall into the— the— _my type_ category.”

“I knew it!” said Merlin triumphantly, trying to wriggle his hand free. 

“Let me finish!” Arthur held on to Merlin’s hand more firmly. He had come out in such a hurry that he hadn’t put his jacket on. So he was beginning to get cold, in his shirt sleeves. Merlin’s fingers felt warm against his cold palm.

He told himself that action was a choice, but so was inaction. And sometimes a moment came in your life when you had to jump into the abyss without regard for the consequences. This was one of those moments. He gazed at the sky for inspiration, and the park fell silent save for a distant riot of quacking.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur said at last, furiously fishing for the right words. “Look, there is more to it than that.”

“Yeah, right.” Merlin rolled his eyes and huffed, but he stopped trying to extract his hand.

“Yes,” said Arthur, gently. He gazed at Merlin, at the sunlight grazing the top of his cheek, at the tiny dimple that appeared as if by magic at the corner of his mouth and then vanished. A surge of affection thrilled through him, startling in its intensity. “A good deal more. It’s to do with more abstract things, you know. Things like kindness, you see, and trust.”

“Really?” The questioning arch in Merlin’s eyebrow tempered the note of scepticism in his voice. 

“Really.” Arthur nodded. The furious, distant quacking was getting louder, but he ignored it. Emboldened by the way that Merlin’s expression softened, he carried on. “And the small ways that this type of person cares for people, bringing, you know, soothing cups of tea and such. And running baths for them, even when they’re behaving like, and I quote, a   _grumpy sausage_ , or— or, a _boorish, pompous clotpole with a plank up their arse._ ”

“Oh. You remembered!” Merlin exhaled through his nose in a silent chuckle. His mouth tilted up at the corners, and his cheeks pinked a little. “Although actually, I think it was more like _rude, arrogant, stuck-up ar_ — "

“Yes, yes, all right, all right, I get the point! And of course, I remembered!” Arthur was warming to his subject. “You see, this is my type. My type of person dreams up the most ridiculous insults that he thinks are funny. They’re _not_ funny. Well, they are, but of course I would never tell him so to his face. And he’s full of the sort of stratospheric levels of kindness that make a clumsy oaf with sausages for fingers take up conjuring, solely so that he can do magic tricks for the sick kids in his care. He’s the sort of person who cries at kids’ movies!”

“If you’re talking about Fantastic Beasts,” interrupted Merlin, “that was a very moving and convincing portrayal of— "

“I know!” said Arthur. “But there he is, my type. Crying over a made-up character of a made-up species! And yet, when he comes home from work. Dealing with, you know, actual dying people. Then, he hides in his room. Pretends that he’s just. You know. Tired.”

“That’s your type?” Merlin tilted his head on one side.

“In a nutshell,” said Arthur, tilting his head the other way until their faces were almost touching. His heart clamoured against his ribcage. “Yeah.”

“And, Elena?” said Merlin smiling. His breath gusted warm against Arthur’s cold cheek and lips.

“Not good enough, I’m afraid,” said Arthur, smiling back. “It’s got to be the whole package.”

“Funny,” Merlin’s eyes glistened bright in the weak, late afternoon sunshine. “Because, well, it turns out I have a type, too. And. Um.” He pursed his lips together, then released them so that the blood rushed back into them, making them flush dark pink. “As it turns out, well. Emotionally repressed clotpoles in general, and a pompous, prattish one in particular have pretty much ruined me for anyone else.”

“Emotionally repressed?” Arthur huffed out a laugh and leaned in a little closer. “I’m not emotionally repressed! I have feelings, Merlin.”

“You do?” Merlin’s eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. “What are you feeling right now, then?”

“Cold?” It was true. Even Jermyn Street’s finest shirt sleeves couldn’t keep out the cold, North London winter chill. He was beginning to shiver.

“Prat.” Laughing, Merlin bashed him on the arm.

“Ow! Ok, well, no, not just that.” said Arthur returning his grin. “I mean. There are other emotions. You know. There are. I mean, it’s not— I wouldn’t say it’s love, exactly. Not really. Except. Well. I think. Maybe, that’s what it is. Um.”  

“That’s good,” said Merlin, leaning in. “Because I’m going to kiss you now. Clotp—"

The rest of the sentence was lost when Arthur finally surged forward to breach the gap between them.

**********END**********


	7. Epilogue

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just. You know. Leave?” Elena bit her lip and risked darting a quick glance at Gwaine’s still bare abs. She swallowed, momentarily distracted. Gosh! Not bad! She took another peek from between her lashes, just to check. Yep, drool-worthy.

“Best not,” said Gwaine, hand on the kitchen door. “Reckon the Princess ran out without taking his key, didn’t he? Plus, I’m willing to bet that you haven’t been paid yet.” He pushed the door open, beckoning.

“Oh, right.” Elena laughed and followed him through. He grabbed her when she tripped on the threshold strip, grinning as he set her upright again. “Oops! He did seem in an awful hurry, didn’t he?”

“Maybe he’s finally got that pickle out of his arse.” Yawning, Gwaine flicked his hair across from one side to the other and flashed her a roguish grin. “Reckon he’s got the hots for Merlin pretty bad, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Elena giggled. “Thought I was in there, to start with, but no.”

“That’s good, though.” With a sly tilt of one eyebrow, Gwaine tugged at her waist and pulled her in for a brief kiss. His beard tickled her chin. “Means I’m in with a chance.” A strong hand grabbed one of her arse cheeks and gave it a gentle squeeze. “They could be a while. Might as well use the time productively, what do you say?”

“Cheeky.” She swatted away his hand. “Not here, pest.”

“Spoil sport.” He pouted, but released her and turned to the kettle. “Fancy a cuppa while we wait instead?”

By the time the doorbell finally rang, they were deep into their third cup of tea. She opened the door – carefully, so as not to spill the tea – and then promptly nearly dropped her mug in surprise. Arthur led the delegation that was waiting for her when she answered, and he was carrying an enthusiastic Aithusa, while Merlin stood behind him on the step. But that wasn’t the surprise, not really. No, the real shock was the state of Arthur’s clothing - not to mention Aithusa’s fur, which was matted with mud and dripping large brown splodges onto the grey concrete steps that led up to the front door of the flat. If she looked carefully, Elena could see a trail of mud leading off into the distance.

As for Arthur, well. His beautiful pink shirt was coated in thick, dark brown muddy smears. Two of the buttons were ripped, and the collar was pulled wide open, exposing his throat. Her eyes widened when she realised that fresh, and highly suspicious-looking bruises littered the golden skin along his neck. Gosh. Either, Aithusa was a vampire disguised as a dog, or Arthur had been snogging someone. Heavily.

She glanced at Merlin. The pale skin of his face was was pink and raw around his chin, as if he’d acquired a particularly bad case of stubble-burn in the forty minutes or so that they had been gone.

Gosh.

“Wow! Whatever happened?” she said, breaking into a wide grin. As if it wasn’t obvious! “Oh, God, Arthur, your lovely shirt! I’ll get some newspaper, or something.”

“It’s fine, Elena, Thanks anyway, but that won’t be necessary.” Arthur shouldered past her, seeming remarkably cheery despite the gross mud-stains that marred his otherwise pristine shirt. “Oh, hello Gwaine! Merlin can clean the floor – it’s his fault Aithusa chased those ducks into the pond, anyway!”

“My fault?” said Merlin, hanging his scarf up on the hook and flashing Elena a joyous grin that made his eyes crinkle and brought dimples to his cheeks. “Oh, hi, Elena! My fault? Of all the cheek! As I recall, a stubborn clotpole was distracting me with— well, at any rate, it’s definitely your fault! Wait, are you going to give her a B. A. T. H? You’ll need a hand, she hates it. You know what happened last time! I know, I’ll hold her while you run the you-know-what—”

“That was a particularly stupid suggestion, Merlin, even coming from you!” drawled Arthur, nevertheless holding the bathroom door open with one hand, the now-struggling Aithusa tucked under his other arm, and beckoning for Merlin to follow him inside. “I’m already mucky, there’s no point getting it all over you as well! Really, you do have the common sense of a gnat, sometimes.”

“Your face is a gnat!” retorted Merlin. 

Still objecting, he followed Arthur and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, where the bickering continued, albeit slightly muffled and interrupted by sporadic, loud barking, splashing and laughter. 

“Oh, Arthur?” called Elena through the closed door after a few minutes. “Shall we just – um.” But the sounds on the other side of the door continued unabated. “I guess that you’ll be a while.” Shrugging, she glanced at Gwaine.

“Well,” Gwaine said, “you can always come back for your money tomor—”

At that moment, the bathroom door popped open again, making her jump. She and Gwaine retreated towards the front door, to make space. Out emerged a laughing Merlin, hair covered in soap-suds, followed by a bellowing Arthur, whose ruined, sodden clothes clung to his broad shoulders.

“Gotcha, clotpole!” crowed Merlin, clutching a towel to his chest as he slithered along the corridor towards the kitchen.

“Come back here!” yelled Arthur, skidding after him on wet socks. He captured Merlin and brought him crashing to the ground, tickling him mercilessly so that he writhed and giggled. “Give back that towel! You idiot, you’ll let her escape!”

At that moment, Aithusa, clean but wet, her fur matted in bedraggled ropes, hurdled them neatly, paws slithering as she landed, and trotted towards the kitchen with her tongue lolling out. Trails of soapy water littered her wake.

“I told you so!” cried Arthur. “Now she’s getting water everywhere! You're definitely cleaning the floor. This is all your fault, idiot!” He pinned the struggling Merlin down by the shoulder with one hand, and dived in to tickle with the other.

“Clotpole!” yelled Merlin, between helpless chuckles as he bucked and writhed around under Arthur. “Ow! That tickles, stop it! Stop it!”

“Come on, Gwaine.” Grinning, Elena stepped away from the entwined couple in the hallway and picked up her pink Converses from the doormat. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

As Gwaine joined her, they turned back. Arthur still had Merlin pinned to the floor, but the tickle fight had evolved into an enthusiastic snog.

“Wow!” said Gwaine, pausing in the doorway. “That’s pretty hot.”

“I’ll show _you_ hot,” said Elena, fluttering her lashes.

For once, it was Gwaine who nearly fell down the steps in his haste to leave.


End file.
